


Stars to Earn You

by Venturous



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After T.E. Lawrence's memorial service at St. Paul's cathedral, a few people gather in a pub to remember him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars to Earn You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dayadhvam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayadhvam/gifts).



**1935 London, a pub near St. Pauls**

“Chris! Who’s that loudmouth Yank over there, the one who offended Sir Ian after the memorial?”

The young man looked up and saw his friend with two brimming pints of bitter.

“Oh, hi, Will. Here's a seat. That’s Bentley, the journalist. Claims he knew Lawrence, traveled with him in Arabia.”

“Well, did he?”

“Yes, he did. Travel with him that is. Making pictures, wrote sensational articles for the Yanks. Then made a bloody circus out of it after the war. But I wouldn’t say he _knew_ Lawrence. Nobody really _knew_ him. Not in this damp country, anyway.”

In an affectionate but teasing tone, Will asked: “Well, what do _you_ know about it?”

Pushing his sandy hair out of his eyes, Christopher Bates smiled as he remembered the Jerusalem sun, the palm trees rustling.

“During the war I was assigned to the telegraph at the rail office in Jerusalem. I had heard  wild tales about this blue-eyed Arab. A man I knew at work named Selim, a railway clerk, somehow became acquainted with Lawrence, quite well it would seem. Whenever Lawrence was in Jerusalem he and Selim would spend hours together. Selim would go out to the Bedouin encampment, for Lawrence would never stay in town.

"Eventually Selim was promoted to a new job, then assigned to the station in Damascus; Lawrence may have had a hand in this.

According to Selim, he was a funny and thoughtful man, a generous friend and a good listener."

“Hmmm. Why would this clerk make up such a tale?”

“Why indeed?”

 

**February 1918, just outside Jerusalem**

“Boy! more wine! we need more wine! El Aurens needs more wine!”

Auda grabbed at the robes of a passing youth who turned, startled, then frightened by the fierce countenance of Auda abu Tayi. He scurried away.

“Auda, I think that boy’s a local clerk, and you scared him half to death. He’s never seen a wild Arab like you! Send one of your own men.”

Lawrence was laughing. Auda thought this was good. He had not seen the man smile in some time. Perhaps the days meetings with the English had gone well. He scowled, knowing this was highly unlikely.

“He is a smart boy! He will do as I command!”

And indeed, if Auda had frightened him, he had also instilled a sense of duty, for the lad returned with not just a wineskin but a large ewer, causing Auda to laud him with praise for his courage and offer him a place with the army.

The boy blushed and stammered, and Lawrence came to his rescue.

“What is your name, son?”

“Selim Ahmed, sir, of the railroad office.”

“Well, Selim-of-the-railway-office, what do we owe you for this fine jug of wine?

“He brings it as a gift for the great El Aurens!” bellowed Auda, gesturing magnificently and grinning like the devil.

Lawrence smiled at the boy. “Pay no attention to my loud friend. I shall gladly pay you for your troubles.” And he pulled out a small purse of coin from within his robes.

“But first, sit and drink with us, and tell me about your Jerusalem.”

Auda found others to carry on with, now fortified with more wine, and Lawrence and Selim enjoyed quiet conversation for some time, talking until the moon set and the camp grew quiet.

“El Aurens, it is an honor, sir, but it is late, and I must go. Thank you sir. I thank you.”

The young man bowed. Lawrence rose to his feet.

“Nonsense, Selim, the honor is all mine. It is a pleasure to know a fine young man such as yourself.”

He bowed in return, eliciting a blush from the younger man, who turned to leave.

“Wait.” Lawrence seized the boy's arm. “Please be my guest for dinner, here, tomorrow at dusk. I insist.”

Selim looked up, his dark eyes wide. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

And then he fled.

 *****

Selim could never understand why he, of all the young men in Jerusalem, had been singled out to dine with the legendary English, the ‘blue-eyed Arab.’ But he as he came to know the man, he believed that what Lawrence wanted more than anything was a true friend, someone who loved him for nothing more than who he was.

That first evening, he arrived at the Bedu camp and was shown to a tent by a servant.  As he stepped through the folds of the entry way, he caught his breath,  stunned by the beauty of the interior. Lanterns hung, spraying starry patterns on every surface. Richly woven rugs and plush cushions covered the floor.  Lawrence rose, clad in his signature ivory robes, and greeted him in the traditional manner, then led him to take a seat on the most opulent carpet Selim had ever seen.

"Welcome, my friend. May I offer you some wine?" One small hand gesture and a servant appeared, pouring ruby elixir from a ewer into Selim's silver goblet.

Lawrence raised his cup. "A toast, to you, Selim Ahmed, and to the future of the Arab lands." He looked into Selim's eyes and smiled, nodded, and drank with obvious satisfaction.

The attendants brought a series of courses, delicious versions of the humble dishes Selim had grown up with, as well as unusual tastes, roasted and spiced flavours he couldn't place. Lawrence asked him about his life, his schooling, his job. And he in turn enchanted Selim with his tales of the journey across the trackless Al Nefud. They lingered over their dining and stories, both enjoying every bit of the company and the fare. The meal was concluded with fat dates and a delicious hard cheese, and yet more wine.

"El Aurens, I am much honored to dine with you. This has been the most exceptional evening. Now you must tell me how I can repay you for your kind hospitality."

Selim was anxious, for he was a humble boy from a family that had little. His father had been killed by the Turks, and his mother was infirm, with only her two sons to care for her. She had insisted that they were educated, and so could find better work than the labor and service work that had worn her body out.

What Lawrence told him was astonishing: "I want you to come to know the Bedu, Selim, to understand the wild tribesmen. They are your people and you must help them, lead them, when we take Damascus.”

"I.. I know nothing of military matters, sir. I am not fit to be a soldier, I have a weak heart, it seems." He hung his head.

"There is nothing wrong with your heart, Selim." Lawrence looked at him with those uncanny blue eyes, and he could hardly bear the gaze.

 “In you I see the future of your country. Educated men like you will be the leaders of a new world."

  
 

**1935 London, a pub near St. Pauls**

"Mr. Bentley? Sir? may I have a word?"

"Hmm? oh, Hello, son. What can I do you for?"

"I’m Will Hampton, and this is my friend Christopher Bates, sir. We understood you traveled with Lawrence, and wondered if you’d toast to his memory with us, and perhaps, share a tale or two."

“Why, sure, boys, pull up a chair! Garcon! another round for these gents!” Bentley could bellow with the best of them.

"So you want to know about Saint Lawrence, do ya. Ha, I supposed I helped with his canonization, although that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind at the time."

“Well, what was he really like?"

“When I first met him, I was just looking for a good story, ya know, and wow, he was that. He stood out like a sight for sore eyes amoung them dirty desert Aye-rabs, and was practically the Messiah if you know what I mean. It was made for Hollywood, I tell ya. So I moved heaven and earth to get a whole crew out there to follow him.” He took a long pull on his cigarette.  “He was committed, I’ll give him that. Obsessed.”

“Did he really live like a Bedouin?”

“Oh, yes, completely. They say early on someone burned his English uniform and dressed him in robes, and he never looked back. He seemed to enjoy making other officers uncomfortable about that. And his A-rab boys. He always had one; he’d insist they came along everywhere he went, and stay with him, as if he were a white man. It drove them nuts in Cairo, and the poor kid!  I tell ya, you Brits are worse about that race business than us Yanks any day!”

Will and Chris looked at each other.

 

 **June 1918** **just outside Jerusalem**

El Aurens came to Jerusalem for consultation with his English superiors several more times that summer, and each visit he sought out Selim and spent many hours. He was more than generous, gifting him with fine apparel, and he even encouraged him to pursue a better job.

“Why do you spend you time with me, El Aurens? I am not important.”

“Nonsense! you are terribly important, Selim!

He was fond of saying: “When we take Damascus, this country will be yours.”  Lawrence would repeat this, smiling, as he fell into an exhausted sleep. And Selim would cover him with his robes.

*******

Selim had confided in his brother about his interesting and powerful friend, who cautioned him. “I don't like this. This English, he wants something.”

“I think he only want a friend, Hafiq,” Selim shook his head.  “Someone who will listen and not have cause to change him. I think he is lonely man. He is not like his own people. He is not like those he leads.”

“He gives you too many gifts. Be careful, my brother, these are dangerous times. There are whispers about you and this man.”

Selim whipped his head around and stared at his brother.

“What are you implying?” His eyes blazed. “'Ya Allah! Wash my brother’s mind of filth!' He is my friend, Rafiq. Have you never had a friend?” The younger Ahmed stormed off to his bed.

 

 

**1935 London, a pub near St. Pauls**

“What else ya want to know, boys?” Bentley grinned and lit another cigarette.

“Um, these young men, ah, was he…?”

“Oh, that. Well, there certainly weren’t any dames around, not until you got to Jerusalem. And whores didn’t seem like his style. He and that boy, they certainly were close. But then again, that was the A-rabs. They horsed around with each other all the time. Hard to tell.

"But you what really gave me the creeps about him? He was cruel. Bloodthirsty, even. When we were going after the Turk railway, and he’d blow up the train. Then they would shoot it up real good, and he’d let the A-rabs sack it for whatever they could loot. Any survivors, he would execute."

Will was wide eyed.

“Seriously.” Bentley took a big swallow of his whiskey. “He went beserk once. You know that curved knife they wear on their belts? Wicked blade. He slashed throat after throat. You don’t learn that in the British army, my friends."

He took another drink, wiped his mouth and lit another cigarette. Waved to the barman for another round.

“I even saw him kill one of his own. An injured boy.  He whispered to him, almost a kiss, and shot him right in the head."

Bentley stared into space.

“Then he got on his camel, raised his rifle, smiled for the camera and galloped off in a swirl of sand.

“To tell you the truth, I am surprised he lived as long as he did. How he didn’t get a knife in the back from one of those shifty A-rabs, or shot when he was standing up there, atop a rail car, a golden target, egging them on. I have no idea.

“The fools trusted him, and they believed him when he said they would have their own country. Sometimes I think he believed it himself."

 

**Late August 1918**

“Selim, I wish you could come with me.” Lawrence looked at him, face haggard and golden hair disheveled, looking uncharacteristically ill prepared for morning.

Selim was worried about his friend. Each time the man had returned to Jerusalem over the past months he was more drawn, and bore a haunted look. He slept poorly, often pacing about throughout the night, calling for Auda or Ali at some still hour to go over a minor detail. When he did sleep, he would cry out in his dreams. He would pretend to eat to so that his companions could enjoy a meal, then he waved the food away.

“Ha! You’ve said it yourself, sir. I would make a terrible warrior. I am too kind." He poured another thick sweet coffee for El Aurens, and brushed a frond of fair hair away from his face. Lawrence looked up at him, his expression warm but not smiling.

"Besides, I am busy preparing to run the Arab state.” Selim smiled and suppressed a cough. “You will fare much better without me.”

While he was getting excited about moving to the new position, if truth be told he had a mounting sense of dread that gripped him as time grew near. For the first time he too wished he could ride off with El Aurens into the desert. But not for war, no; to get away, to go into the beauty of the desert that he had heard his friend describe. He wanted to disappear into the blazing moonless nights, the sand that ran in waves like the sea, to ride with El Aurens and the Bedu below the towering cliffs of the wadis, and see them awash in golden light. 

He hated the idea of moving away from his mother, so frail was she, and his brother and all that was familiar. Damascus was a dangerous territory; the Turks were still in charge. But he must be brave for El Aurens, his friend would come, leading the tribes to victory and all would be well. But his fear shook him, it caught hold of his breath sometimes, as if it would not let him go. He kept this all to himself, and gave all his best encouragement to his friend who was preparing for a great battle.

"I will be waiting there to welcome you, El Aurens. I shall open the gates to our city! We shall be victorious!"

 

**1935 London, a pub near St. Pauls**

"Gods, that Bentley is a blowhard, isn't he? You'd think he'd be more charitable to Lawrence' memory, considering how it made his career."

"Well, a Yank, you know." Chris stared into his ale.

"So, whatever happened to Selim?"

Chris sighed. "I knew his brother as well, and it was he who brought me the news. Selim his brother died of the fever his first week in Damascus. It was a cruel coincidence, of all the ways to die in the war, no one had expected this.

"It was said that after Selim’s death, Lawrence came with gifts for the family, that he grieved for him like a brother."

**Author's Note:**

> a poem by T. E. Lawrence, inscribed _for S. A,_ also the frontispiece to his book The Seven Pillars of Wisdom:
> 
> I loved you, so I drew these tides of  
> Men into my hands  
> And wrote my will across the  
> Sky and stars  
> To earn you freedom, the seven  
> Pillared worthy house,  
> That your eyes might be  
> Shining for me  
> When I came
> 
> Death seemed my servant on the  
> Road, 'til we were near  
> And saw you waiting:  
> When you smiled and in sorrowful  
> Envy he outran me  
> And took you apart:  
> Into his quietness
> 
> Love, the way-weary, groped to your body,  
> Our brief wage  
> Ours for the moment  
> Before Earth's soft hand explored your shape  
> And the blind  
> Worms grew fat upon  
> Your substance
> 
> Men prayed me that I set our work,  
> The inviolate house,  
> As a memory of you  
> But for fit monument I shattered it,  
> Unfinished: and now  
> The little things creep out to patch  
> Themselves hovels  
> In the marred shadow  
> Of your gift.


End file.
